


displace.

by falter



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Amnesia, Apocalypse, M/M, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falter/pseuds/falter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to Michelle for the cheerleading, handholding, bullying, and beta. Written for getmikeylaid.</p>
    </blockquote>





	displace.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Michelle for the cheerleading, handholding, bullying, and beta. Written for getmikeylaid.

Pretty much everyone Joe's met since it happened bitches about the ash. It's the new small talk. It's everywhere, a fact of life. Joe doesn't really mind it, though. Sometimes it swirls on the breeze in big white flakes that remind him of snow. He misses snow a lot, which surprises him. He remembers bitching about the winter back when there still was one.

Silver linings, though; Joe appreciates the ash, because of the way it smoothes out the landscape into a soft grey wash, so the people stand out stark against it. You get plenty of warning now, as long as you're on open ground, and when you aren't on open ground, well. No one can cover their tracks anymore.

He also appreciates the way that pretty much everyone you might run into goes masked now: scraps of fabric, old scarves, stitched-together conglomerations of hi-tech camping gear, grimy surgical masks. Sometimes, those disposable dust masks, so dark with ash that it's hard to believe any air still gets through. Once, a carefully stitched together assemblage of sweat-stained silk and what Joe was pretty sure used to be one of those gold coffee filters. He just uses whatever he comes across until he finds something better; right now it's an actual bandanna, a blue one.

Anyway, he thinks as he stands in the road and looks at the group of people approaching, what he likes about the masks is the way they cover up all the distractions, cover everything but the eyes. It's harder to recognize people as individuals, but easier to recognize which ones are threats.

These people's eyes just look tired. There are six of them, none very big, all carrying packs. If Joe had to guess, he'd say four of them are women, two men. When they come close enough, he steps to the side of the road, lets his hands hang loose and open at his sides. It's always a gamble, not being a threat, but not running either. It pays off when they stop.

Joe watches each of them look him over, sizing him up, and he forces himself to stay calm, relaxed; he looks back at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes. Only one of them looks away, deep-set eyes flickering down to look at the ground, then off toward the horizon. Joe's done this before, waiting for judgment. Usually someone in the group will make a sound, or they'll just start walking again, leaving him behind. He's learned better than to follow if that happens.

This time, though, the silence stretches out until the figure in the lead coughs, lifts the cloth away from her mouth (he's pretty sure it's a her, once he sees the angle of her jaw) to spit, and says, "We'll make camp in another hour or so."

Joe grins under his bandanna, and he knows they can see it around his eyes. He doesn't care; he's in. When they start walking again, he falls into step with them.

*

Joe's pretty sure it's less than an hour later when they stop, not that it matters. They've found part of a wall that doesn't look like it's in immediate danger of falling, and they settle into the shelter it gives, where the ash is thinner on the ground and the air is a little more clear. It's at the top of a rise, too, so there's a better view of the approaches, and less danger if there's a rain. The drifts of ash can turn into mudslides without much warning, now. This is a smart group; he knows he got lucky.

It's gratitude for that luck that makes him empty his pack first. His gambles so far have paid off, he thinks as he sets his supplies out on the ground for everyone to see: the tent he scavenged from a sporting goods store, his water, a few battered Clif bars he found in an abandoned pack a few days ago, his knife, the can of tomatoes he hasn't been willing to blunt the knife to open yet, half a jar of Jif. His extra socks, his spare t-shirt, a big piece of printed cotton that he thinks was probably once the kind of thing Urban Outfitters sold to college kids for their dorm rooms. He plans to make it into masks, unless there's something else he needs to fashion it into first. He's not sure what; he'll know when he needs it, he's sure.

The woman who spoke before crouches in the dust and touches everything in turn, then shrugs out of her own pack. It's a signal to the others, and they fold and crouch and settle to the ground in a loose circle, opening their packs as well, pulling items out one by one, letting him see everything before they sort it all and re-pack. They're wealthy. Joe sees a bottle of vitamins, a bag of salt. A can opener. A gravity-driven water purifier, like people used to take camping. Like Andy used to have, the same brand, he thinks. When everyone else has repacked, Joe's can of tomatoes and jar of peanut butter are gone, but the bag of salt and a plastic gallon jug half-full of water are in their place. They're gambling, too.

He re-packs his own bag, the water at the bottom, the salt tucked into a zipper pocket where it will stay safe, and looks around the silent circle again. The guy who looked away before is staring down at his own hands, but the rest of them watch as Joe tugs the bandanna down off his face, clears his throat, and rasps out his own name.

*

The leader is Jamie. She's the first to speak, to pull her own mask away from her face and tell her scraps of story. She taught high school, she was on vacation, she used to love to go camping. Her mouth is a wry twist when she offers the information up, the past tense of it. She's pretty; Joe thinks she looks too young to have taught high school, but ages are harder to judge now, anyway.

After Jamie, the rest of them go in turn. Cathy and Jim are either siblings or a couple; they don't say, but they're definitely linked somehow, sitting close, watching each other for cues. Katie was a barrista studying polisci; her eyes look old, but her mouth is soft and young. Ann's voice is rough when she whispers, "Lawyer". Her hair is shot with grey.

The last one, the second guy, doesn't meet his eyes until after he's unwound the scarf from around his face. It's a knit woolen thing that was probably striped once upon a time. Joe thinks it looks too hot for the way the world is now, and he's thinking a little again about how much he misses cold sharp winter air when the guy looks him in the eye and shrugs a little, like he's embarrassed, and says, "Don't know. Don't remember," then looks away again before Joe has a chance to do more than frown.

*

That first night, they open the can of tomatoes, and pass it around the circle, sipping at the juice and pulling out the pieces as they're uncovered. It tastes metallic and thick and wonderful. Ann smiles at him every time the can comes back around to her, and Jamie beams equally at everyone. Joe knows he looks equally ridiculously happy, and it's almost a relief when they've finished sharing out the chunks of what looks like beef jerky that make up the rest of the meal, pull their masks back over their faces, and assemble their shelters for sleep.

Joe lost the tent poles long ago, so he doesn't have much set-up to do — just unpacks the tent and worms his way inside. If he sets his pack inside at the right angle, it keeps it tent-shaped over his head, at least. He doesn't use it much when he's on his own, but the luxury of sleeping barefaced and still waking up able to breathe is tempting, sometimes. There's something homey about it, too. Like the space is his own. They set a watch, but he's not part of it yet. He's not sure if he isn't trusted enough yet, or if they're cutting him a break. It's been a long time since he last had a chance to sleep without keeping half-aware of his surroundings. He probably shouldn't relax now; they could still kill him. They won't though. He's sure of that, from their cautious smiles and care, and from the way the guy who said he didn't know his name was looking at Joe when he thought no one was paying attention: surreptitious and sad and greedy to look again.

Joe knows the guy's name. He's pretty sure Mikey recognizes him, too.

*

Joe's learned patience in the past year or so. It's another silver lining. He's always been an optimist, even if this isn't the future he was hoping for.

He waits three days before he talks to Mikey directly, and even then, he keeps it vague. Recent stuff, where they'd been, what they'd seen. The kind of small talk that might keep you alive later, if the person you were talking with wasn't spinning a line of bullshit. Mikey won't say much, but Joe tells what he can in exchange anyway: the city he passed through a month ago, and the broad creeping mudflow through it that used to be a river, the way that he'd tried to follow it back far enough to get to free-running water, the way he'd been run off long before he got there by sentries who threw rocks until he turned back. The time he found a gas station that had an untouched cooler full of Dr Pepper and Diet Coke, and he stayed there until he'd finished it all.

"I never even liked Dr Pepper, before, man, but that shit was like heaven." Mikey's eyes are on the road ahead, but Joe's pretty sure he's smiling. He imagines it's that little tamped-down smile Joe can remember seeing years ago, across stages and parking lots and crowded rooms. "How about you?"

He knows he's made a mistake before the question is all the way out. Mikey's eyes go flat, and he doesn't turn toward Joe when he speaks. "What."

There's no question in the question, no inflection at all, and that's enough to stop Joe from trying to answer. Mikey doesn't speak again until they stop for the night.

*

Joe starts walking next to Mikey every day, or most of every day. He doesn't try to draw him out again, and he thinks maybe Mikey might look a little grateful for that. Instead, Joe talks a little with Jamie about where they're headed (nowhere in particular, just not here), a little with Katie about the things they don't miss (alarm clocks, road rage, hangovers) and about the things they do miss (everything else), a little with Ann about books they both read years ago. Cathy and Jim mostly talk to each other, so Joe leaves them be, beyond a friendly nod here and there.

He sits next to him when they stop for the night, every night. Mikey still looks at him whenever he thinks no one else is watching. Joe always notices.

*

Joe's been with them for almost a month, he thinks, when it rains. He's on watch when it starts, and he knows what it means, so he lets out a yell and upends Jamie's pack as she scrambles out of her shelter. He's chanting it, _rainrainrain_ , until he's sure everyone's awake enough to help string up the tarp to collect the water, assemble every container that can be filled, move their supplies underneath the shelter. He's still shocked when the crack of thunder comes, and Katie laughs when he jumps. When he turns, Mikey is smiling, too.

Once the containers are full and the tarp is re-braced so it will fill without collapsing, they all bed down again. There's not much space, and Joe can feel Mikey warm against his side, Cathy or Jim, he isn't sure which in the dark, on the other. They leave their faces uncovered; the rain has washed the ash right out of the air.

*

The sound of people moving wakes Joe the next morning. He stays still and listens long enough to be sure it's just them, just the people he knows, and then blinks his eyes open. He's turned onto his side in the night, and he's looking at Mikey, who's still asleep. His face looks strange, uncovered and unguarded, soft mouth and dark shadows under his eyelashes. Joe sees him start to twitch awake in plenty of time to roll himself away.

Once Mikey's up, they all help to lower the tarp carefully. The ground is still wet enough, the air still clear enough that they can wash things — their masks, the inner layers of their clothes, their bodies. It's shocking to see skin after so long — his own skin, even. The water in the tarp is a murky grey by the time it's Joe's turn, but it's cleaner than he is, and it feels good. He wants to stay in until his fingers prune up, but Mikey's still waiting his turn.

Mikey offers him a hand getting out, the same way Joe had offered Cathy a hand out when he took her place in the tarp. When he'd taken Cathy's arm, all he'd been thinking about was the prospect of the water. When Mikey takes his arm, though, Joe can't look away from the long fingers against his own uncovered tattoos, from the way his hand clasps Mikey's wrist, his palm over the top of half a flaming heart.

His heart stutters a little, or his breath catches, or something ridiculous and poetic and embarrassing like that. Joe isn't sure; it's been a long time. But he knows Mikey had been looking at him, too.

*

Jamie's watching them after that. Joe supposes that's what makes her the leader. She doesn't say anything, though. No one else seems to care.

Joe feels like there's a live current running through him. He wants to shake Mikey, to find out everything, to get close to him, to throw a punch and feel it connect, to jump and yell and turn back time. He mostly just pretends nothing has changed; that's what Mikey's doing, after all.

*

Nothing does change, not really, until the night after the strap on Mikey's pack breaks. They're walking along what Joe is pretty sure used to be a railroad track, with a steep drop away on one side, and higher ground on the other. It isn't much of a drop, but the ash is in deep drifts at the bottom. The weight of the pack swinging unexpectedly sideways knocks Mikey off balance, but Joe's watching him (he's always watching him), so it's easy enough to grab Mikey's hip and shoulder, to steady him. Joe is maybe being a little opportunistic; the smart thing would have been to grab at the heavy pack instead. Mikey's carrying enough water to make the weight unpredictable, and the unbroken strap slides off his shoulder, twisting and upending the pack.

They both grab at the falling supplies that spill out, but they still lose things. The blanket and oilcloth roll that makes up Mikey's shelter falls silently into the ash below. When the drift settles again, it's hard to tell where it hit. They don't have any way to retrieve it.

That night, they sit in a circle and empty all of their bags again. Joe sets his printed cotton sheet or wall hanging or whatever it is on the pile in front of Mikey, and Ann tries to move the water-collecting tarp from her pile to Mikey's as well. Jamie moves the tarp back in front of Ann before sighing and pointing out the obvious.

"Joe. That's a two-man tent you've got, right?"

Joe doesn't blush. At least, he's pretty sure he doesn't blush above the top of his bandanna.

*

They restructure the watch schedule right away, since that night is meant to be Joe, then Katie, but there's no way that Joe isn't going to wake up Mikey when his shift is done. It means that first night, they don't share after all: Mikey sleeps, then Joe settles into the space Mikey vacates halfway through the night. Joe can't sleep, but he closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists and stays absolutely still until morning.

The next night isn't as awkward as it could be. Mikey got the hang of sleeping in the collapsed tent the night before, and with two packs inside rather than just one, it's much less cocoon-like. They go to sleep back to back, but Joe still wakes up looking into Mikey's face in the dim orange light of morning. He looks as long as he can.

*

It's like being home again, like early days, forced intimacy and discomfort and hero worship, maybe. A little. Like sleeping in the backs of vans and in cheap overcrowded motel rooms and on floors.

It's nothing like that at all.

It's what he's got; it's what the world will give him now.

*

It lasts less than a week.

*

It's the night after their watch night, the second round of the new schedule, and Joe doesn't think he's been asleep long when he swims awake again. There's a warm hand on his ribs, fingers twitching: pressure and release, pressure and release. Mikey's breathing is quick and ragged against Joe's neck, and it takes Joe a dizzying moment to realize Mikey is crying. Then another to realize Mikey is still asleep.

It takes him longer to decide what to do, and he still fucks it up when he rolls toward him and sets a hand on his shoulder and says, "Mikey. Hey, Mikey. Bad dream, man. Wake up."

He can't see Mikey's face in the dark, but he knows where it is, and he can hear Mikey holding his breath, can feel Mikey's hand unmoving and heavy against his side.

He knows it's a lie, but he says it anyway. "Mikey. Listen. You're okay. It's alright."

"It isn't, it's not, I don't want —" The words are rushed and soft and frantic. "I don't, I can't — Jesus, Joe, why can't you —"

"Hey," Joe starts again, but Mikey's hand slides down and tightens on his hip, and there's a shove and a twist and Joe's flat on his back again and Mikey's on top of him, all knees and elbows and hard fingers over his mouth.

Joe stays still and tries to make out Mikey's face, above him in the dark.

"You have to stop." Mikey takes a long ragged breath, and lets it out slowly before he starts talking again. "I can't remember, Joe. I can't remember and keep going, okay?"

Joe doesn't nod, and he doesn't shake his head, but he tilts his chin a little, enough that Mikey loosens his fingers, so Joe can talk. He's not sure what the smart thing is to say, here, though. "But you can, right? You remember everything?"

Mikey's fingertips press again, then slide over Joe's jaw, exploratory and unexpected, as is the sudden gentle weight of Mikey's forehead resting against his in the gloom. "Yeah. I remember everything." The statement sounds sad and final, and Joe can't say anything in response to that, so he tilts his chin again, and presses his mouth blindly against Mikey's, groping upward and grabbing at Mikey's shoulder, pulling him down. It's overwhelming, focused and desperate and something a little like angry, but it doesn't last long. Mikey pulls away, gasping, and it sounds like a sob, and Joe can't hear that, he can't, so he reaches up with both hands, gentle this time, and guides Mikey's mouth back to his.

It takes long tense minutes of Joe keeping his mouth moving soft and slow before Mikey catches up, sliding a hand under Joe's clothes, and everything speeds up again, and they're both tugging and shoving and fuck, they're going to twist the tent around them if they're not — there. _Skin oh god skin_ and Mikey's mouth is against Joe's throat and it's been too long, fuck. Mikey's breath is loud and Joe can hear himself gasping, too, and the slick sound of his own mouth on every patch of Mikey's skin he can reach is something he can't get enough of, like music used to feel, pulling him apart and together again.

They roll again, and the tent is definitely twisting around them now, but Mikey kicks a little and it loosens and his hands are hot and flat against Joe's skin and he slides one palm down over Joe's cock, fingers light until they press and curl and Joe's not going to last long, so he pulls Mikey closer against him, sliding up into his hand, suddenly desperate and dropping over the edge, coming and dizzy with it.

Mikey goes still, and Joe thinks, distantly, that he might be holding his breath again. He breathes deep enough for both of them, though, and gives himself a little shake, and tangles his hand into Mikey's hair hard enough to make him gasp; breath enough for now. He pushes against Mikey until he has room to move, and slicks a hand, and wraps it around Mikey's cock, and pulls their mouths together again, and breathes for him as best he can, for as long as it takes.

*

Joe wakes to an insistent jab at his ribs. There's barely a hint of morning light filtering in through the material of the tent, but it's enough to see the way the shelter is hanging low and angled in front of his face. Mikey's pack is gone, and so is he.

There's another jab while he takes that in, and while he lets himself hope for a moment that Mikey is just out early. Doing something. Making everyone pancakes and coffee and orange juice. What the hell, as long as Joe's doing the wishful thinking thing he figures he might as well go all out. Fuck. He fumbles his mask into place and squirms his way out into the gloom of morning.

Jamie's looming over him, and he blinks up at her while he shoves his feet into his boots. Her eyes above the layered fabric of her mask are — he isn't sure what that look is. Not sad, exactly. More like expectant, and a little resigned. Exasperated, maybe. She offers a hand, and tugs him up.

As soon as Joe's standing, she's ducking down and sliding his pack free of the tent, crouching to rummage inside. Joe's half-heartedly looking around the camp for the shape of someone he knows isn't there, and he's still half asleep, and it takes him a moment to realize how strange that is. She's tugging the bag of salt out, and sliding a cloth-wrapped bundle of provisions into the pack in its place. She's breaking the contract, and kicking him out, but she's doing it kindly, and Joe's disappointed and grateful and fuck, such an idiot, he ran Mikey off, exile's more than he deserves.

The hug, when it happens, surprises him. Jamie's thin and wiry — they all are, now — and she's about half his size, but the embrace still feels enveloping and lush, something else he didn't know he missed, and it takes him a moment to hug her back. When she lets him go, she gives him a little shake, and her voice sounds rough and tired and quiet when she speaks.

"He's got a couple of hours on you, but if you go before the wind picks up, you shouldn't have any trouble following." Her eyes hint at a smile. "He wasn't walking fast."

Not exile, then, not really. Probably not. Hope. Joe stuffs his tent in his pack fast, and Jamie leads him to the edge of the road, where clear footprints mar the smooth ash, a path winding back the way they came. Joe starts walking. He'll catch up soon; he knows he will. Joe's always been an optimist.  



End file.
